Then she looks up at me and says, “This is the best bad idea I’ve ever had.”
My hand tightens at her waist before I can stop it. “You have no idea how bad.”
Her smile fades only a little. “No,” she says. “But I think I’m starting to.”
10
KATERINA
By the timewe return to the apartment, Moscow has turned black and gold outside the car windows.
The city looks different at night. Softer in some places, harsher in others. Lights float on the river. Snow collects on ledges and rooftops. The streets shine beneath the passing cars, and every building seems to hold its own secret behind glowing windows.
Dinner had been lovely.
A small restaurant with candlelight on the tables and frost blooming along the corners of the glass. Roman had ordered for us again, and this time I had only argued a little because everything he chose tasted better than anything I would have picked. Warm bread, rich soup, fish with butter and herbs, honey cake so delicate I almost forgave him for being impossible.
I didn’t drink. Not wine. Not champagne. Not even one tiny glass of vodka when Roman offered it with that unreadable look in his eyes.
I wanted my head clear.
That’s what I told myself all evening while his knee brushed mine under the table and his fingers skimmed the inside of my wrist when he passed me a spoon. I wanted to know, without alcohol, without panic, without humiliation clouding the edges, whether I still wanted him.
By the time we step into his apartment, I have my answer.
I want him so badly I can barely breathe.
The door closes behind us with a soft click.
The living room is dim except for the fireplace and the city lights beyond the windows. Snow moves against the dark glass like ash. Roman takes off his gloves slowly, one finger at a time, and I stand near the sofa in the green dress he bought me, feeling every inch of fabric against my skin.
He looks at me.
The whole day has been full of looks, but this one is different.
There’s no one here to interrupt us, no plane aisle, no locked bathroom, no polite lie about being newlyweds.
Only Roman.
Only me.
Only the silence stretching between goodnight and whatever comes after.
“I should let you sleep,” he says. His voice is calm.
“Yes,” I say.
Neither of us moves.
Roman’s eyes drop to my mouth. “You had a long day.”
“I did.”
“You’re tired.”
“Very.”
The words are sensible. Perfectly sensible. I should turn around, walk down the hall to the guest room, close the door, and lie awake pretending I do not know what his hands feel like on my body.
